


Leave Me With Some Kind of Proof it's Not a Dream

by Anonymous



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Biting, Blow Jobs, Dirty Talk, Explicit Consent, Manhandling, Multiple Orgasms, Other, Overstimulation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, misuse of avatar powers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:07:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22722925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Martin Blackwood deserves good things. In this case, that means getting the brains fucked out of him by one Tall, Blonde, & Monster.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Michael
Comments: 25
Kudos: 163
Collections: Anonymous





	Leave Me With Some Kind of Proof it's Not a Dream

**Author's Note:**

> Me, using both he/him and they/them pronouns for Michael: Author can have little a projection, as a treat
> 
> There wasn't going to be nearly this much biting involved, but then I decided that Michael would totally have big ol' sharp teeth and everything just spiraled (ha) out of control from there. Also, what's the point of having reality-bending powers if you're not gonna use them for good? (Good, in this case, is giving Martin orgasms)
> 
> The context for this is a vague au where Michael survives and just. Starts being a nuisance around the archives until he's kind of friends with everyone. Also, literally everyone is safe and happy because I say so :^)

Martin doesn’t need to turn around to know that there is a new door in the wall of his study. He knows exactly what monster comes through without looking, from the static electricity in the air and the chill that runs up his spine, the strange laughter that is somehow comforting even as it makes his ears hurt. He gives up any and all hope of finishing the poem in front of him, one that wasn’t really working anyway, only pretending to keep writing. He thinks that Michael will appreciate the charade, being what they are. 

He expects the presence behind and above him too, Michael’s hair falling on either side of his face, claws scrabbling to grab at the creaky old wood of the chair. They’re in what he calls a study but is really more of a closet, a tiny room packed with a desk to write on, a human, and a Michael, who is occasionally too large to even fit in the room at all if they aren’t trying to be person-shaped. Martin just has to trust that he knows to keep the walls intact, thank you very much. 

And he does trust.

What he doesn’t expect, in the familiar silence, is for one of Michael’s hands to leave the chair, instead cupping his chin, thumb resting on his bottom lip, and Martin freezes. The words he’s pretending to write trail off into nothing, the graphite turning into a hazy mess as his insides do the same. He can feel the sharpness of the digit against his mouth, knows just how little pressure it would take to break the skin. He has to take a deep breath, but even then he only inhales more static.

“Michael?” The name is much more of a gasp than he wants it to be.

“Martin.” He’s clearly pleased with himself, Martin can pick enough out of that strange voice by now to know that. Their hand hasn’t moved. 

But that’s the only answer he gets, not any explanation for the current situation. He doesn’t think the creature has bothered to learn much about personal space, no matter how hard the archival staff tries, but this is different from the sprawling intensity that he’s come to expect. This is something pointed, the sort of careful intent that makes his face flush something awful and makes him scramble to his feet.

But, like an awful lot of things in Martin’s life, this backfires. He’d been hoping to step out into the empty space of the hallway to get his head back and slow the racing of his pulse and think about exactly nothing at all. But he overestimated how much space was between them, and Michael doesn’t move back. He finds himself cornered against his shabby chair and even shabbier desk, staring down a monster. Well, he’s technically staring up at a monster, but that doesn’t change the fact that Michael is still  _ right there _ , their bodies very nearly pressed together, just a breath away. His smile is something vicious and it makes him flood with warmth. 

To say that he’s attracted to Michael is an understatement. From the moment when the thing started hanging around the Archives without hurting anyone to when he began doing the same around his flat, all delicate features and daggered-teeth, tall, elegant frame offset by hands that could cut him in two and a voice like a jigsaw, Martin has been very, very aware of him. And the way he catches him off guard, crowding into his space, the way he seems to make a point of pestering him specifically, it all makes Martin very, very confused about if an actual avatar of fear is hitting on him or if he’s just projecting his own desires. Or, of course, if they’re just messing with him, playing a strange game with a rule-book that changes. The current situation isn’t helping. 

“Um,” Martin tries. “What are you doing? Why are you here?” He thinks that he’s trying to push Michael away, because otherwise he’s going to kiss them or do something else equally stupid. Instead, he just rests his hand lamely against their shoulder, feeling it shift to be something more anatomically correct beneath his palm. So much for that plan. And then Michael wraps their hand around his wrist to pull it back, grip firm and tingling, and Martin suddenly understands what the Romantics were talking about when they swooned onto fancy pillows. 

“I am speaking to you,” he says, and Martin should be used to asking very specific questions by now, even if that still gets him vague answers half the time. “And I have a something to ask. May I take you to bed?” They tilt their head to the side as they speak, expression changing no more than it always is, and. Uh. He thinks he might, logically, have to be dead for this to be happening here, in real life, and not in a dream. He knows he’s awake through the tightness of Michael’s grip around his wrist. He also knows what he heard, but he can’t be sure if Michael knows exactly what he’s asking. Maybe they just want to open a door to right above Martin’s bed and dump him in it, trying in some strange way to help out after reading something or other about how humans work (it wouldn’t be the first time). 

So he asks, hardly aware of his own words, “Um, what do you mean by that?” 

And Michael leans in close, closer, until their long hair is tickling against his forehead, pressing their bodies together enough to push Martin’s back against the hard edge of his chair, smile widening into something wicked. The answer is as clear as day. 

“What I mean,” Michael raises a hand again, running the back of a finger down across his cheek and the burning skin of his neck, leaning impossibly closer to whisper in his ear. “Is that I would like very much to fuck you. If you will let me, I want to taste you, to have you writhing under me, to make you scream. I want to know exactly what it feels like to have you come on my cock. Will you have me?” 

Martin is nodding before he even has time to fully process the words, letting out a “yes” that is much more of a whine than he would like to admit. But it doesn’t matter, because Michael hoists him easily against their side, leaving him to wrap his legs around them, giving pressure to his already half-hard cock, and carries him out into the hallway and towards his bedroom. Knowing, logically, that Michael isn’t limited by human ideas of physics and can pick him up doesn’t exactly prepare him for the real thing, no matter how much he’s thought about it. He barely has a second to bite back a moan before they’re kissing him deep, sharp teeth catching on his lips, and he opens his mouth and lets the creature in. They’re thorough, licking through his mouth like they really are trying to taste him, but it’s not unpleasant. 

Especially not when one of his hands tugs through Martin’s hair and he realizes, with another flash of heat, that Michael is holding him with only one hand.

Martin barely even notices that they’ve reached the bed until he’s put down onto it, Michael crawling after him. It’s a twin-size, definitely not meant for two people and especially not when one of them is well over six feet tall, but they fit anyway. He turns his head for a moment to see the edge of his mattress… fluctuating, almost, the edges fuzzy like they’re shrouded in mist as Michael does something weird to reality, and he can’t help but laugh. It’s such a little thing, but it’s a reminder of who he’s with, and it’s even harder to stop giggling when Michael makes a noise like a chirp put through a blender, bumping his forehead lightly against his chin. They press their forehead against his cheek, rubbing along the lower half of his face and his neck, continuing to make that pleased noise. 

Martin’s laughter catches in his throat when their mouth meets his neck instead, soft lips pressing against his pulse, and the sharp teeth he knows to be behind them. As if reading his mind, Michael nips just below his ear, and he moans, tangling his hands in his hair, tugging him further against his neck. He wonders if the marks will last. 

“Michael,” he sighs, giving up on saying anything else when they repeat the motion, harder, before sucking on the small indents his fangs have left. If he wasn’t so busy reveling in the feeling, he might be embarrassed about getting so worked up, his cock straining against his jeans already. Instead, he just feels a deep sort of warm all over, letting Michael’s form cover him, pressing him down into the mattress as they trail their way down his neck. He’s really,  _ really _ thorough, and it takes until Martin is panting, one hand fisted against his mouth, to realize that they’re tracing fractal patterns all across his bared skin. It’s an impossible maze of teeth and tongue and too-soft kisses, the only other contact where Michael’s knees are braced on either side of his torso, and it’s not enough.

“Michael,” he says again, tugging them downwards by their hair, trying to speed things up. “I thought you said something about fucking me?” 

He gets a low chuckle for that, the kind that rumbles down his own throat from where Michael’s teeth are bared and shakes through his rib cage, the sort that would scare him if he wasn’t used to it. 

“Oh, I will. You’re so wonderfully impatient, little human, hm?” First of all, he thinks he’s being plenty patient by human standards, and second, he is definitely not a small guy. Michael had gotten much better with using actual names (through a combination of general scolding and threats, depending on who he was nicknaming) and normally Martin would be patronized, but as is? When Michael’s holding himself just out of reach of his hips, voice low in his ear? His breath catches in his throat and it’s all he can do to hold back a moan. 

“Not to worry, I’ll give you what you need.” Michael folds themselves back, and Martin takes the opportunity to start tugging off his own heavy sweater. He looks up halfway to see that Michael has apparently stopped bothering with clothes, his endearingly hideous sweater and slacks disappeared completely. They’re mostly what he’s imagined (and oh, how he has imagined), decidedly too sharp in places and beautiful for it, stark collar bones leading to a wiry form, thin blonde hair across their lower stomach and--

And Martin might drool, just a little, at Michael’s cock, he can admit that. He is. Well, he’s proportionate. 

When he manages to look up again, they’re all but leering down at him, and he feels himself flush even further, the heat reaching its way down onto his chest, and he starts to undress again. They seem set on helping, and even though Michael tugging off his jeans and boxers while Martin pulls off his sweater really shouldn’t work at all, it does, in the same way his bed can fit them both without even a complaint. 

He feels exposed, the cool air constricting around him, hands twitching at his sides as he fights the urge to cover up, to do something. But then he catches the way Michael’s looking at him, and it’s hard to bother with being self-conscious. 

His gaze is heavy enough to pin Martin to the mattress as their eyes trace up and down every inch of his skin, staring without shame. The creature grins like the cat that caught the canary, victorious and predatory. Then, as Martin watches, enraptured, a tongue that seems far too long lolls out of their mouth as Michael licks their lips. His cock twitches and he can’t help the whine that escapes his throat. He is, after all, only human. 

“Holy shit.  _ Michael _ , please--” Martin doesn’t have to ask twice. All at once they’re on him again, kissing him into the mattress and pushing their hips together just how he needs. Michael swallows his moan down easily, making a pleased humming noise and thrusting down again, heavy cock sending static through him where it rubs against him, and Martin doesn’t think he’ll ever get enough.

But then they’re pulling away again, too soon, and he’s left painfully hard. Michael seems to hesitate for a moment over his chest before continuing downward to settle between his splayed legs, propped up on gangly elbows and his mouth so close to where he needs it. 

“Oh my, how pretty! Look how hard you are for me already. So very sensitive, too,” Michael all but coos, running a feather-light finger over the underside of his leaking cock, punching a desperate moan from his chest. “Just look at you. How desperate you are. You’re dripping for me, aren’t you? Aching for me to touch you? I wonder, how long it would take for you to start begging.” 

Martin is very, very keenly aware that, as things stand, it would probably take about five second max. 

He tries to gather himself enough to say something witty, mouth just opening with a retort when Michael closes their mouth over him and all the words disappear.

It’s deep and instant, the tight heat all around him, and he cries out as he circles him with his tongue. He tries to thrust up, to chase the feeling when Michael shifts back for a moment, but their hands pin him own oh-so-easily, claws digging into his hips in brilliant sparks of sensation. From there, everything is a blur for a bit, the feeling of Michael’s tongue laving over him; his own hands tangling in Michael’s hair just for something, anything, to hold on to; Michael sucking punishingly on the tip of his cock; Michael’s own, warped noises of pleasure rocking their way through him; Michael’s clever, treacherous tongue, licking through his slit— 

It’s all Martin can think as he comes:  _ Michael Michael Michael MichaelMichaelMichaelMichaelMichael _ , waves of pleasure rolling through him from head to toe. And they just stay there as he shakes through it, lips locked firmly around him. Just when Martin thinks that it’s too much, they pulls back, not bothering to wipe off the mess trickling from their mouth, somehow languid and casual when he’s pretty sure he just had an intense enough orgasm to give himself brain damage. 

“I’m just glad you didn’t use your teeth,” Martin jokes once he can properly speak again, because, hey, he’s well aware of just how sharp those teeth are. 

“Oh really? You didn’t seem to mind this—” And Michael is somehow on top of him again, teeth sinking into the edge of his lip, and he lets out a squeak. “—or this—” A bite to where the skin of his neck is already sensitive from his earlier work “—or this—” a gentle one to the peak of his nipple, that he can’t help but push up into “—and not here, either. Really, you seem to like my teeth quite a lot. Unless I’m mistaken?” Michael ends by clamping down on the inside of his thigh hard enough that it’s going to bruise, and Martin yelps, electricity shooting up through him when he’s already so overstimulated, and his cock gives a half-hearted jump. He also accidentally constricts his thighs around Michael’s poor head, but they don’t seem bothered in the slightest. He feels like that’s enough of an answer to his question that he doesn’t actually have to say it. 

Instead, he mumbles, “Uh, sorry that I came before we got to do anything else.” He scratches at the back of his neck, feeling a little guilty, but Michael just cocks their head to the side, face shifting towards a loose form of puzzlement.

“Why? I wanted to taste you. Now I have.” 

“Uh. This might be different for you, but I can’t really… get hard again for a bit?” Honestly, it’s a gamble what parts of human anatomy Michael understands and which are just a complete mystery. They blink at him.

“Well, that’s an easy problem. May I?”

Because Martin’s curious about what they could possibly be offering, he nods, and Michael grips at the junction of his thighs, glancing up at him once to check that he’s still on board, and then something twists in the everything around them. 

There’s a flash of shade and light across his vision, twisting and curling and shifting shapes that make his head spin in colors he doesn’t think humans are meant to see, so Martin presses his palms over his eyes. At the same time, there’s definitely something happening to his lower half, more than the usual level static that always comes with touching Michael, something that both feels like every wire in his body just got knotted up together and also just feels really, really good. Just when he’s teetering between nausea and euphoria (which don’t cancel out at all, just create a third, worse sensation), it all stops. Martin opens his eyes to find himself fully hard again, a sudden burst of arousal shooting through him. 

“...Huh.” 

“Was that alright?” Michael asks, shaking their head as though to clear it.

“Yeah, just. Weird. But I’m okay.” He’d be even more okay, though, with a second orgasm, so he sits up enough to grab the lube out of his nightstand, eagerly coating his fingers and pressing one inside of himself. Even with whatever Michael did to him, it still feels like he just came, and he moans a little at the thrill of almost too much, pushing in deeper. Michael hums, and when he cracks an eye open it’s to see that they’re carefully considering where he’s fingering himself, one large hand slowly tugging up and down their cock. 

He opens himself up as thoroughly as he can, trying not to get lost in the press of his fingers, or the way Michael’s looking at him, or the noises they’re making. But it’s good, even if he still wants more, and Martin lets his head fall back, whining at the feeling of three fingers in him. Suddenly, he tastes something metal and realizes that his bottom lip is bleeding, blood smeared into his mouth and trickling down his chin. Everything is so much, and it feels a little like he’s burning up, though this has nothing at all to do with the Lightless Flame. He tries to say something but just makes a bunch of disjointed noises, trembling as Michael laughs.

“I’m ready,” he manages, nudging at Michael’s chest with his knee, trying to get him to do something. 

“Mm. Now, how would you like me to have you?” They hum, asking like he’s an interesting puzzle, and the words make him shiver. Martin knows exactly what he wants, and he’s also one orgasm past any shame.

“Any way you want. Please, I don’t care how, Michael, I just need you in me, please,  _ Michael _ .” Martin doesn’t care that he’s babbling, not when Michael lifts him up so easily, growling something deep and ancient and wanting, and manhandles him to exactly where they want him. 

Martin ends up on his hands and knees on the bed, thighs spread, leaving him perfectly exposed. He’s vulnerable, caught and pinned and kept, and it twists something deep inside him that makes him keen. 

And then Michael is pushing into him, slow and deep, deeper than he could’ve even dreamed, claws gripping the softness of his sides gently. They’re achingly deliberate, filling him completely until he can hardly breathe and they’re fully seated within him. 

“Perfect. You’re so perfect for me, little thing. So good, taking my cock like this, so pretty. My Martin.” Michael makes a noise that’s almost a sigh, pressing himself down over his back, hanging over him in a comforting presence. Martin just whimpers, feeling the stretch inside of him, mind already hazy, body racing with pleasure. He can feel the ache of where they’ve bit him, the throb of the hickeys across the dip of his throat, the places where claws have almost broken skin and he loves it, to be marked so fully. 

Even just like this he feels impossibly good, and he tells Michael so, spitting out messy words, too fucked-out to even know what he’s saying. But something must work, because they pull out of him and thrust back in, hard. It forces a yell from him, and from there he can’t even speak, just letting him push little noises out of him with every thrust, fucking into him punishingly.

In the haze, Martin’s arms give out, and he sinks down until his face is pressed into the mattress, hands out in front of him and clinging weakly to the sheets. The position just opens him up even more, and all at once Michael is rubbing against his prostate again and again, so deep inside of him. It only takes a little more, of having Michael’s thick cock so deep within him, of their form covering every inch of him, his voice achingly loud in his ears, of just letting Michael have whatever he wants of him—

Martin can’t help but scream as he comes, stars behind his eyes and shaking with the force of it, thighs trembling where Michael holds him steady. He feels almost like he’s floating, so overstimulated, crying out as their cock continues to drive into him through it. 

But then Michael’s pulling back, and Martin knows that he’s going to stop, trying to reach back and hold him in place even though it hurts his arm.

“No, no, don’t stop, please, don’t stop. Want you to come, too. Want you to come in me.” He urges, his voice distant in his ears, and Michael might say something in return, voice rough and breaking up into pieces, but Martin gets just what he wants. 

There’s no way he’s going to get hard again without any weird distortion magic (and Michael seems a little too preoccupied for that), but that doesn’t stop the little jolts of pleasure still racing up his spine, and he feels dizzy and loved and perfectly full. He just holds on as Michael fucks him, pushing lazily back against them. 

The realization that they’re no longer speaking English, not speaking any language that has ever graced a human tongue, doesn’t surprise him. Michael’s voice is never normal, none of him ever really is, but now it is consuming. It wraps him up inside of its guttural sounds and twisting syllables, reaching down deep inside his chest, not even a voice anymore but a feeling. Michael’s thrusts grow impossibly harder, impossibly deeper, as the sound does the same, until he’s coming. They still deep inside of Martin with a yell that shakes through the air, arms wrapped tight around his middle, a bright-sharp-static burst of sensation within him. 

Martin isn’t sure how long it takes for him to think even somewhat clearly again. His body doesn’t quite feel real, like his head has just detached itself entirely, which should maybe be more concerning than it is. But, as is, he can’t really be bothered to care. He feels clean enough to be able to sleep comfortably, though he doesn’t know if Michael just urged the mess between his legs away or actually did things the human way. Michael has pulled out of him, sitting at the base of his bed and examining him carefully, golden curls mussed into a lion’s mane and face almost flushed. They seem, maybe, to sigh when he comes back to himself, making that chirping noise again. 

“Do you feel alright?”

Martin tries to say something, but finds that his tongue isn’t quite cooperating. Worth it. Instead, he manages a clumsy thumbs-up, and Michael’s face twists into a bright smile. Before Martin has time to worry that he’s going to leave, that he has no reason to stay, he’s clambering up towards him and grabbing a blanket off of his nightstand. They seem to only have a vague idea of what to do with it, but after a bit of shifting, they’re both tucked securely under it, Martin’s head resting on Michael’s chest and their arms wrapped firmly around him, a rumbling sound like an imitation of a purr lulling him closer to drifting off. He’s satisfied and sleepy and comfortable, letting the noise wash over him as sleep does that same. Martin knows that Michael won’t sleep, but he  _ will _ stay, and that's all he could ever want. 

**Author's Note:**

> This is a very informal but necessary shoutout to the fic Something Rich and Strange by The_Watchers_Crown because I read it and now care So Much about Martin and Michael, in case you couldn't tell lol, which is how I ended up writing this. Also, comments are super duper appreciated if you enjoyed!!! :^D


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